


tolerate it.

by bubblesodatea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Bittersweet/Ambiguous Ending, Artist! Sylvain, F/M, Married Life, Office Worker!Ingrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 17:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30092739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesodatea/pseuds/bubblesodatea
Summary: Ingrid wonders how many times she'll have to tell herself everything's okay before it comes true.— written for the Sylvgrid Evermore project.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28
Collections: Sylvgrid Evermore Project





	tolerate it.

**Author's Note:**

> **track 5: tolerate it**
> 
> _I made you my temple, my mural, my sky._

The clock's hour hand is well past the time she had given him over the phone when Ingrid finally gets home, her hair sticking to her forehead and a bag containing two long cold burritos wedged at the bottom of her purse. She has to set her purse on the counter to properly get them out, wrinkling her nose when she sees how smushed the foil had gotten during her commute home.

A splotch of red and teal appears in Ingrid’s periphery, lingering just to the right of the coffee table. Ingrid keeps her eyes trained on the marble countertop. 

“Welcome home,” he says, and his voice is even and familiar and perfectly pleasant. Ingrid braces herself and looks up.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Ingrid says. 

Her response comes quickly, but it’s the kind of swiftness that comes from instinct rather than nervousness. It’s their nightly exchange, after all. He welcomes her home and she apologizes, and they both have the audacity to expect anything different. 

Sylvain’s expression doesn’t change. He always has had the ability to smile through anything. “It is a _bit_ past six PM, Ingrid.”

She runs a hand through her hair, apologetic and exasperated and tired. “I’m sorry, something came up last minute, and my manager wouldn’t let me leave.”

“Can you at least text me the next time it happens so I know you’re safe?” Sylvain takes a few steps towards her, his footsteps quiet against the wooden flooring. He was clearly right about to go to bed before she arrived; he’s taken out his contacts already, his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses slightly askew on the bridge of his nose, and his hair is still damp from a shower. 

The starchy sharpness of her shirt’s collar against her neck suddenly feels suffocating, and Ingrid has to take a breath before she says anything else. 

“Sorry, yeah, I will. I didn’t mean to make you worry,” she says, and Sylvain relaxes slightly. He takes another step forward and Ingrid thinks he’s about to kiss her, but he reaches for the take-out bag instead.

“It’s fine. Want me to heat these up in the microwave?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ingrid says. She tries and gives him a tired smile. “Thanks. I’m going to go change, then.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know when they’re done,” Sylvain says.

“Thanks,” she repeats. “I’ll be sure to come home earlier next time.” 

She won’t. She’ll mean to, but forget in between the meetings and the paperwork and constant elevator trips between her office and the break room and the conference hall.

“Okay,” Sylvain agrees anyways. He takes one of the miserable-looking burritos out of its foil. “I’ll try and have dinner ready tomorrow, so you don’t have to keep getting it after work.”

He won’t. He’ll mean to, but forget between his hours of gallery work and portfolio submissions and rambling phone calls with his agent. 

But she’ll keep believing it’ll happen for real tomorrow. It’ll be a new day, and they’ll both wake up with the sun behind their eyes and new air in their lungs and they’ll both keep their promises. There’s nothing else to say, because she knows it’ll all work out. 

(Ingrid’s tired and this is just how it is and she couldn’t find the words even if she wanted to say them and—)

* * *

Ingrid’s known Sylvain for as long as she’s been alive. She’s known him from when he was a freckly ginger beanpole with braces to when he was crowned Homecoming King. She had been there to help him move out of his parent’s home and into his college dorm, and she was there to welcome him back into their hometown after four years abroad. She watched him date woman after woman and waited by his side until one day, she was the woman he kissed and swore to have and to hold. 

And Ingrid feels like that should be enough.

Sylvain’s changed, slowly but surely over the years, from an aimless, charismatic slacker to a man with a purpose. Ingrid sees how much painting inspires him, so much more than political science or law ever did. She is proud of how he escaped his father’s suffocating grip, and she doesn’t think that will ever change. Sylvain is an artist on the cusp of fame; he’s meeting all the right people, attracting all the right buyers, Ingrid on his arm for every gallery showing. 

And Ingrid feels like she should be happy for him. 

They don’t see as much of each other as they did when they first got together, despite the fact that they share a townhouse. He’s an early riser now (and if teenage Ingrid heard that, she’d probably burst a vein from laughter), slipping out of bed before Ingrid can even realize he’s gone. 

She comes home late more often than not, always with a bag of some sort of vaguely-palatable take out and a throbbing ache in her temples. Sometimes he’ll stay up for her, and sometimes he won’t. On those nights, Ingrid changes into her pajamas as quietly as possible and tucks herself in next to him, watching his chest rise and fall with every breath.

And Ingrid feels like she shouldn’t want anything else.

* * *

“I’ve never seen a painting so dynamic—really, look, Sylvain, you’re a genius.”

Ingrid watches as Sylvain preens at the compliment, smoothing a lock of red hair back before responding to the doting art buyer. 

“Genius? Nah, you’re too kind. It’s just a lot of dumb luck and boring old practice,” he says, looking very pleased with himself despite his humble words. Sylvain does appear very much the part of a professional, dressed in a smart blazer and slim-cut trousers. His shirt’s top collar is still unbuttoned. Ingrid listlessly swirls the white wine around in her glass as the buyer continues speaking. 

“You’re underselling yourself, dear,” the elderly woman says, gesturing towards the unframed painting on the wall. She’s short but exceptionally wealthy looking, with so much jewelry on her that Ingrid’s surprised she doesn’t topple over from the weight of it. “I haven’t seen such a successful showing for many years. Darling, you need to be proud of yourself. That oil painting makes me think of a modern O’Keefe. What inspired you?” 

Ingrid glances over to Sylvain. That’s the kind of question the couple usually laughs over—Sylvain says that buyers who read too much into art are idiots.

(“I’m so tired of pretentious art critics. Sometimes a clock is just a clock,” he had said once, years ago, back when he had purchased his very first oil paints. “Not everything symbolizes something.”) 

But the Sylvain of now latches onto the buyer’s question with a relaxed ease. He stares at the canvas: an abstract smear of Cadmium Yellows and Emerald Greens that pillows out into vibrant clouds of color. 

“Oh, mostly my youth in Fhirdiad. It’s based more on a feeling than a specific event. Memories of being young and reckless—well, more reckless, at least,” he says, winking.

Ingrid’s grip on her glass tightens instinctively, but she isn’t sure why.

Sylvain doesn’t notice, both his and the buyer’s attention wholly on the painting.

“How sweet. I hope you don’t mind if I excuse myself right now. I simply  _ have _ to talk to my husband and let him know we’re purchasing this piece before anyone else snatches it away,” the buyer says. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Sylvain.” 

The woman gives Sylvain a departing kiss on the cheek, and brushes past Ingrid without a word. Ingrid sets her drink down, stomach curdling. She’s only had a few sips, but she thinks maybe that’s already too much for tonight. 

“She was a lot,” Sylvain says, turning back towards Ingrid. The corner of his mouth is uplifted and Ingrid thinks he’s trying to be funny. 

“Yeah, she was,” is all Ingrid can think of to say, and mentally kicks herself.  _ Be supportive. Your husband’s super expensive art piece is going to be purchased. _

“Still, it’s great to get a sale!” Ingrid says, looping her arm in Sylvain’s and smiling up at him. “I’m so proud of you, Sylvain. Soon every piece in this gallery’s going to be hanging above some wealthy buyer’s fireplace.” 

Sylvain’s expression doesn’t change, that half-smile lighting up his handsome face, but he doesn’t say anything for a while either. They stay like that, side-by-side, the quiet chatter of gallery viewers and occasional clinking of Swarovski crystal glasses being lifted to lips the only sound. Ingrid shifts on her feet, mostly because her too-tight heels are starting to kill her toes, and only a little bit because she isn’t sure what else to do. 

Silences in a conversation are normal. Silences in a conversation with Sylvain are normal and common and therefore should be comfortable. Even chatty, outgoing people like her husband can’t keep an exchange going forever.

Ingrid exhales in relief when Sylvain finally speaks again anyways.

“Yeah, it’s a relief that people like my stuff. Although, to be honest, that piece is my favorite one in this show, so I was kind of hoping it wouldn’t sell,” he says, laughing slightly. Ingrid regards the painting. It’s good, but so is the rest of Sylvain’s work. She’s not sure what sets this one apart. 

“The colors in this one  _ are _ really nice,” she says, recalling the buyer’s comment. “Very bright. Maybe we could tell the lady it’s not for sale?”

Sylvain’s smile stays, and he unloops his arm from Ingrid’s, only to wrap it back around her shoulders. “Hey, thanks, but it’s okay. I shouldn’t get too attached to these anyways. Maybe I’ll get lucky again and I’ll make one I like more than this one.”

Ingrid opens her mouth to assure him that he will, when another prospective buyer approaches them. Sylvain pulls away from her to greet them, and Ingrid’s left standing by the side again with only her wine glass for company. 

She takes a sip and wrinkles her nose. After several hours of being held in her hands, the glass has warmed the wine up to an unappealing lukewarm temperature.

Ingrid finishes it anyways. 

It’s only later, when all the guests are gone and Sylvain’s digging the car keys out of her purse that she realizes he’d answered her in the same way he’d answered that buyer, that he’d given her the same smile and laughed that same laugh. The corner of his mouth upturned. His handsome face. His eyes lingering on that painting.

He should have looked at her differently, right?

Ingrid wants to make sense of it, but her brain is fuzzy from her drinks and the late hour. Sylvain has to remind her to buckle her seatbelt, and by the time she does so, she’s already lost track of where that thought had been going. 

* * *

The thing is, Fhirdiad youths aren’t Cadmium Yellow and Emerald Green, and certainly not Sylvain’s. Fhirdiad youths are shades of dark blue against darker navy, pale snow tinted to match a stormy sky. Fhirdiad youths are redheaded boys fighting and screaming and running away from each other down an endless slate black hallway. 

Sylvain’s said before he doesn’t think every painting needs to have a meaning. The answer he gave to the buyer was probably nothing more than a few pretty words meant to target a nostalgic old woman.

But one day, Ingrid takes her lunch break half an hour early, ignores the unhappiness on her manager’s face, and drives downtown to the gallery when she knows Sylvain won’t be there.

And she observes the painting.

She stays there for a full hour, her eyes grazing over the topmost edge of the frame to the very bottom and then back up again, staring at it in every possible combination of angles, seeing it and still not comprehending.

Her watch chirps the end of her break, and Ingrid drives back uptown.

* * *

“Hey, Ingrid, what’s up?”

“Hi Sylvain. Listen, I’m so sorry, but one of the managers took a sudden vacation and didn’t backup any of her files, and Lysithea’s on sick leave—”

“What’s a Lysithea?”

Ingrid raises a hand to her forehead. “ _ Who _ , Sylvain, not a  _ what _ . How do you not remember her? You met Lysithea a few months ago for the company dinner, and I talk about her a lot.” 

“Sorry.” There’s a rustling sound from the other end. “What were you saying?”

“Right. Well, they really need me to stay in—for just another hour or so—so I can help them back everything up. It’s just so hectic here today, I don’t think I can get out of it.” 

The rustling noise stops. “Ah.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just that…”

“What?”

“...Nevermind, I forgot what I was going to say.”

Despite her husband’s casual tone, Ingrid feels a sudden urge to defend herself. “You did tell me to let you know ahead of time if I came home late.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” A pause. “Thanks for telling me.” 

“Of course. I’ll see you later tonight, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Ingrid. Love you.” 

“I love you too, Sylvain.”

The call ends. 

That went well, right? Ingrid stares at her now-black phone screen and runs over every word he’d said back in her mind until she confuses herself with her own recollections. Did he say “Love  _ you _ ” or “Love  _ ya _ ”? Had he sounded more relaxed, or was his tone frustrated?

Ingrid’s good at reading her husband; she knows how he likes to repress his more difficult emotions behind a smile, but she’s never really experienced it firsthand like this. Even prior to their marriage, Sylvain would tell Ingrid things he’d never tell another person, save for maybe Felix.

Ingrid tries to shake off the feeling. She’s being unfair to him in her anxieties, getting too far into her own head. Their conversation had been perfectly fine and normal, he had been as easy to talk to as ever. Any confusion over his tone could probably be explained away by the call having occurred while they were both working. Sylvain is every bit as busy as she is, mixing paint and stretching canvas or whatever it is he does around this time in the afternoon. 

Staring at her phone won’t help her stop overanalyzing any less. With a sigh, Ingrid turns her attention to her computer and lets the familiar low hum of work wash over her. Nothing distracts her like the monotonous motions of clicking a file or expanding a spreadsheet.

By the time she gets home that night, it’s been long past an hour since work ended. The lights are all off, Sylvain’s asleep in their bed, and the bag of fast food on the kitchen counter is the only sign he remembered she was coming home at all.

* * *

Sylvain’s working on a big painting. Ingrid knows this from his behaviour rather than from seeing the painting herself; when he’s devoted to a new project, Sylvain becomes very dedicated and introspective, oftentimes forgetting to eat unless Ingrid reminds him. She catches glimpses of the canvas whenever she knocks on the door of the shed he uses as his studio, but can’t figure it out. Ingrid lets him be for the most part; she doesn’t ever go in out of a mix of respect and a fear she would ruin her painting or her clothes.

Sylvain starts waking up earlier to start working, oftentimes out of bed before the sun is even fully up. When he comes back into the house, his hands and clothes are covered in persistent smudges of oil paint that drive Ingrid crazy. 

“Really, Sylvain? Isn’t Cadmium  _ poisonous _ ? Why do you use so much of it?” she asks, standing up from her spot on the couch and herding Sylvain towards the kitchen sink. Ingrid turns on the warm water and pumps several globs of pumice soap into Sylvain’s hands, scrubbing it up to his elbows. Sylvain wrinkles his nose. 

“Not unless you eat or breathe it in.” 

“Can’t you use a safer color?” Ingrid asks, rubbing a particularly stubborn yellow streak off his wrist. “Lemon yellow is nice and non-toxic.”

“Lemon yellow doesn’t have that perfect Cadmium gold, you know. I’m fine, babe. If you should be worried about anything, you should be worried about the turpentine. I’m always worried I’ll confuse it with my water bottle. But I guess it wouldn’t be too much of a shame if I drank it, huh?” he asks. 

Ingrid looks up, startled. “Sylvain—”

“Kidding, kidding. I use gamsol. It’s not as poisonous,” he says. “You know I was just joking, right, Ingrid?” 

She bites her lip and shuts the water off. “You shouldn’t kid about stuff like that. It’s not funny.” 

“Aw, Ingrid. How long have we been married? Ten years?,” Sylvain says. He smiles at her, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “You know I don’t mean stuff like that.” 

It  _ has  _ been almost ten years, Ingrid realizes. Ten years since she’s walked down the aisle in her white dress, ten years since Dorothea caught her bouquet, ten years since the wedding march and falling rice and the first dance. It feels like a lifetime ago. 

If Ingrid saw herself now, the version of herself that had been a new bride, Ingrid’s not sure if she would recognize the woman. Fresh out of undergrad, wearing boots under her gown, showing up to her own dress rehearsal with a cut on her arm because she’d taken a tumble off her horse the day before. She had had  _ bangs _ back then. 

She’s changed a lot, but Sylvain even more so.

Ingrid hands him a towel to dry off with, and thinks that this man is so much older and wiser than the one she married, so much so that it feels sometimes like they’re two different people.

“Ingrid?” Sylvain says, and she’s snapped out of her memories. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m—Yeah, of course. I was just lost in thought. You know, you’re right. Our anniversary is coming up. I had almost forgotten,” Ingrid says.

Sylvain looks at her with an expression she can’t quite read, one that isn’t hostile but isn’t the open enthusiasm she would have preferred for such a proposal. “Yeah, same. Ten years, huh?”

“I thought we would have divorced by now,” Ingrid says. She tries to make it sound like a joke—she’d  _ meant _ to make it sound like a joke—but it comes out of her mouth and dies in the air. Ingrid looks away from her husband, suddenly becoming very interested in water swirling down the kitchen drain.

“Well, since we aren’t, we should do something nice to celebrate. How about dinner at Figment’s? One of my buyers owns the restaurant, and I think he would set aside a reservation for us if I sweet talked him a little bit. Or if you can take a day or two off, we can spend a long weekend by the lake—”

“I don’t think I could take the time off,” Ingrid says hurriedly, trying to reel in Sylvain’s brainstorming before he gets ahead of himself. “Maybe we can stay in that evening, though.” 

“That would be nice,” he agrees, and that’s enough to make her exhale a little easier. Ingrid takes his hand into hers, feeling the grooves of his calluses and the warmth of his skin. It feels strangely foreign to be holding his hand like this; reaching for Sylvain earlier had been second nature, but touching him deliberately like this is—nice, she thinks, but unfamiliar.

Ingrid thinks about the painting she had seen at the gallery, and wonders if his current project ties into that piece in any way. “Sylvain, I had a question about your painting. The one in the gallery, the one you said was based on your youth.” 

Sylvain’s grip on her hand tenses for the barest of seconds before he lets his hand drop to his side. “What was your question?” 

“Oh, well, I was wondering how long it took you to make,” she says. It wasn’t the question she was going to ask, and Sylvain can probably tell. Ingrid’s no genius, and she’s not a master of reading body language like her husband is, but even she knows when a subject isn’t worth pursuing.

“Around two weeks, I think?” Sylvain answers, speaking easily as if he has the answer on reflex. Considering all the gallery events he’s been attending in the past month, it probably was. They’re back on safe conversational territory, but the nostalgic mood of earlier is dead on the ground.

“Wow, that’s fast,” Ingrid says. She’s actually not sure if it is or not, but it would be odd to ask him a question and not comment on the answer. 

“Meh, that’s pretty average,” Sylvain says, running a hand through his hair. “I think I’m going to take a quick nap and then get to work on some ‘thank you’ emails for buyers.”

He leans down to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, the scent and presence of him filling Ingrid’s sense for one brief second, and then he’s walking back down the hall and through their bedroom door. 

Ingrid feels like she said something wrong, but she can’t for the life of her figure out what it was.

* * *

See, it wouldn’t be a problem—

(Not that there’s a  _ problem _ .) 

—if Sylvain just spoke honestly about his feelings for once, because she can’t tell what he wants from his expression.

It’s not because she doesn’t know him, and it’s not because she isn’t trying, but  _ every time  _ she tries to understand him even a little bit, he smiles and speaks to her like he’s reading off a teleprompter.

(“Good morning, Ingrid.” “Have a good day at work, babe.” “I made great progress on my painting today.” “Can you let me know if you’ll be home later than you said?” “‘Night, love you.”) 

And every so often, he’ll make an offhand joke or she’ll ask him something, and the entire conversation will go sliding off into the wrong direction. Ingrid starts finding that it’s not so bad to be in the office for longer than planned, because even though the office is boring and lonely, it's comprehensible. 

Sylvain used to be too, but now—

“Good morning, Ingrid.”

“‘Morning, Sylvain.”

“Have a good day at work, babe.”

“Thanks, love you, bye!” 

It feels like he  _ should _ be.

(But he isn’t.) 

* * *

Ingrid sets out their nicest silverware, pours out two glasses of lemon sparkling water, and folds and unfolds the linen napkin in her lap so many times that the tips of her fingers start chafing. 

She’s not the best cook, she’ll admit. She’s alright, but Sylvain (whenever he remembers to) is better at creating exciting dishes. Still, she’s slaved over their dinner tonight, and hopefully effort will make up for her lack of ingenuity. Ingrid’s had this strange, roiling feeling in her stomach ever since she left work early today; it stayed with her as she went to the grocery store, and didn’t subside even as she chopped vegetables and changed into a nice blouse, the Vivaldi blaring from her phone not enough to cover her worries.

Ingrid is tired of feelings she can’t quite name, and so she tries to stamp it down as hard as she can and sips at her water. It doesn’t help—the bubbles tingly on her tongue only make her feel more frizzled—but it gives her hands something to do, and before she knows it, she’s finished her whole glass.

Mechanically, she reaches for the bottle on the table and tops herself off.

The flowers on the table are a bouquet of daffodils: sunny, bright yellow blooms that remind Ingrid of the colors Sylvain has been favoring as of late. They’re tied together with an old ribbon she’d found in one of their cabinets; the daffodils had been lush when she’d purchased them earlier that afternoon, but Ingrid’s starting to think she hasn’t added enough water (or perhaps added too much water?), because they look a little lackluster. She prodes at one of the flowers with the backend of her fork. 

Sylvain is out of the house, which is normal. Today’s one of those days where he’s required to be at his gallery, Ingrid knows, and Sylvain is also the one typically charged with running errands in their household. It’s a holdover from before Sylvain had become successful that they haven’t found a reason to change; they’d tried to balance those kinds of tasks equally when they had first gotten married, but Ingrid’s work hours were always overwhelming. All things considered, it was a small miracle that her manager had let her take the half-day off for their wedding anniversary. 

It  _ is _ unusual for Sylvain to be out this late, however. It’s growing to be around the hour where Ingrid usually comes home, and she can’t remember a day where she’s returned to an empty house. A quiet one, yes, but never one without Sylvain. It’s a little unsettling, frankly. Ingrid wonders how her husband ever got used to it. 

The food on the table is starting to grow cold; her black pepper and tomato risotto is starting to curdle into itself, creating a gelatinous-looking pile of mush. Looking at it is making her lose what little appetite she had to begin with, so Ingrid covers it with a lid and sets it onto the kitchen counter. After another few minutes pass, she starts covering and setting aside the rest of the dishes as well, until the table holds only the flowers and the dinnerware.

Ingrid looks at the clock and then back down at the empty plate before her. It’s polished so thoroughly that she can see her own distorted face stare back up at her, a blur of yellow and green against ceramic white.

The thing is, he’d  _ said _ he’d be home by now. Sylvain’s usually good with time and dates; he is, afterall (and Ingrid thinks this next thought a little bitterly), the one always chiding her for coming home late. She checks her phone, and finds that her only messages are from Annette and Dorothea.

The longer she thinks about his absence, the more anxious Ingrid becomes, but she’s pretty sure it’s not for Sylvain’s safety.

She’s sat there for so long that the world outside their dining room window is now entirely dark. Ingrid pushes out her chair and closes the blinds. Maybe she should just text Sylvain, or call him, but he’s so late now that Ingrid almost wants to see how far he can push it. Maybe he’ll come home tomorrow. Maybe he won’t come home at all. 

Ingrid slams her hands against the countertop, letting the sharp sound of flesh against marble and the dull pain in her palms jar her out of her thoughts. She’s being ridiculous. She’s letting her mind wander down dangerous pathways, all because her husband is a few hours late to a dinner he wasn’t even aware of.

She takes a deep, staggering breath.

It’s just one deviation away from their usual routine. It doesn’t  _ mean _ anything.

(Ingrid is so tired of feelings not meaning anything, and that roiling sensation in her stomach comes back at full force. She wants to take her spirit out of the case she calls a body and shake it until she gets one, definitive answer.)

She takes another breath, and starts putting away the silverware. 

* * *

Sylvain comes home with flowers around thirty minutes later, desperately apologetic. He had been at the gallery, he explains, and one of those fancy rich patrons had wanted to take him out to dinner. It was halfway through entrees that he remembered that it was their anniversary, and he couldn’t excuse himself from the table in a way that seemed tactful.

What an accomplishment, Ingrid thinks, and what a travesty. Sylvain’s decided now, of all times, to learn  _ tact _ . 

Ingrid takes his flowers and smiles and puts them in the vase next to her limping daffodils. Rather than brighten the room up, the addition of his red lilies just make the whole bouquet look overstuffed and claustrophobic.

There is no sign of any planned dinner on the table; Ingrid tells Sylvain about the leftovers in the refrigerator, explaining away her early arrival home as a simple stroke of luck.

He kisses her on the cheek. He’ll eat after he gets some work done on this next piece. She should go on to bed without him.

(Ingrid’s tired and this is just how it is and she couldn’t find the words even if she wanted to say them and—)

“Good night, Sylvain,” she smiles.

“Good night, Ingrid.”

* * *

Cadmium Yellow is a lightfast pigment. The shade is a true, classic yellow: a richer hue than cheaper paints, which tend to pull beige or lemony. It reminds Ingrid of lemonade and long, endless summer days, of sand on the beach and the daffodils in her bouquet. Sylvain uses tubes and tubes of it in his work, but Ingrid never touches a drop of paint.

It’s a dangerous color. When Sylvain had first decided to go into painting, Ingrid had accompanied him to the art store. The sales clerk had waved them over to where the pigments were held, and every little can had a sticker, warning its users of potential death should it be ingested or inhaled. The same labels were on the tubes of paint in the next aisle. Ingrid hasn’t been able to get that warning out of her mind since.

She knows that it’s technically fine; afterall, it’s not as if either of them are ingesting globfuls of paint on a night basis—but still, Ingrid prefers to stay on the safer side of things these days. 

Ingrid supposes that that’s one difference that’s manifested between herself and Sylvain: he’s still unafraid of risks. He’s the one who cut his toxic, oppressive family out of his life. He’s the one who’s brave enough to leave a passionless career and switch over to something that he actually loves.

She was like that too, once upon a time, but stability is too steady of a comfort for her now. Ingrid hates her job, hates how she’s just another name on the office ledger instead of the powerful figure she was supposed to be, but it’s  _ familiar _ . Her shirt collar is always too tight, too sharp, but it keeps all of her resentment contained in one starched package. She’s too pragmatic for risks, but that doesn’t mean she never thinks about—

Sometimes, Ingrid looks at the door and she—

Sometimes, Ingrid will test and see just how long she can stay at the office, later and later and later until—

Sometimes, Ingrid stands with her knuckles against the door of Sylvain’s studio, just about to knock, and then—

What would he do if she—

Ingrid lives her life by organized lines, and she can’t go off script.

She  _ can’t _ . 

* * *

It’s just like any other day.

He’s out of bed before she can even realize it.

They kiss goodbye at the doorway.

She goes to work, and stays there until sundown, and then she stays there a little longer. 

She swings by some take out place because she  _ knows _ he hasn’t made dinner (just like he  _ knows _ she wouldn’t come home on time), and they eat in separate rooms.

That’s how Ingrid knows today will go. She already has the food at the bottom of her bag (hamburgers and sweet potato fries), and she’s already running behind. When she gets home, the clock's hour hand is well past the time she had given him over the phone, and her hair is sticking to her forehead. Sylvain comes slinking out of the hallway, dressed in teal pajamas and glasses.

“Welcome home,” he says.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Ingrid says.

Sylvain runs a hand through his hair. “It’s fine.”

“How was the gallery today?” Ingrid asks, setting her purse onto the counter to better rummage through it. 

“It was good—better than good, actually. It was great. Almost all of the current paintings there are sold, and a lot of the buyers are asking me to make more work with the same theme.”

“Are you going to?”

He hesitates. “I mean, it sells.”

Ingrid’s not sure what to say here, so she just hums. “Do what feels right to you.”

“I guess you’re right,” Sylvain says, reaching for the takeout bag. “Want me to heat these up in the microwave?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ingrid says. She tries and gives him a tired smile. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to come home earlier next time.”

There’s a pause in the conversation.

Sylvain is silent. Sylvain has missed his cue, and the unfamiliarity of it makes her uncomfortable. He’s looking at the countertop rather than at her, and he considers it for a second too long before speaking again. 

“You know, Ingrid, you really need to stop saying that.” 

Sylvain has not missed his cue. Sylvain is going off script entirely. Better yet, he’s taking a sledgehammer and shattering the very carefully maintained atmosphere in their house, leaving Ingrid feeling like she’s been suddenly submerged in ice water. 

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, letting the chill in her veins make its way up to her brain so she can process what he just said. “What do you mean?”

Sylvain seems torn over whether or not to answer her, but he does after another beat.

“It’s just that I know you won’t come home earlier, so when you keep saying that you will, it feels very...hollow,” Sylvain says. “It’s kind of hard to believe you, at this point.” 

His words twist the dagger in her, and Ingrid has to take a step back, physically winded. Shocked and stunned, Ingrid instinctively goes on the defensive. 

“Well, I said that I was sorry. It’s not as if I’m the only one who’s broken a promise a few times—what happened to making dinner every night?” Ingrid asks, gesturing towards the takeout bag. Her tone is even, mostly because she can’t believe this conversation is really happening. Sylvain slams the takeout bag back onto the counter with such force that Ingrid thinks the fries have probably become mashed potatoes. 

“You know what, Ingrid? I did try. I made dinner every damn night, but do you know how  _ painful _ it is to sit there and watch it get cold and disgusting at an empty table?” Sylvain says, raising his voice. Ingrid, refusing to relent, matches his tone.

“Yes, I  _ do _ . Remember our anniversary last month? I didn’t  _ just happen _ to make a full pasta dinner, you know. I felt the exact same way when  _ you _ came home late, so—”

“Okay, but did that happen to you two nights in a row?” Sylvain asks. “Three nights in a row? For two months, until I finally realized you were lying and that you would  _ never _ try to be home earlier?” 

“How  _ dare _ you?” Ingrid hisses. Sylvain has never spoken this way to her before. Ingrid has never been called a liar before. The counter is still between them, and Ingrid grips the edge of it so hard that her fingers turn purple.

“Do you know how many dinners I’ve boxed away for you because I didn’t want you to feel guilty?” Sylvain asks. “Or how many times I’ve pretended to be asleep so I didn’t have to see your face when you came home, because I knew you would see that I was upset?”

Ingrid makes a noise she wasn’t previously aware she could physically make, some sort of desperate, angry cry from the back of her throat. “Okay, well, do you know how many times  _ I’ve _ been  _ made _ to work extra hours at my job? Do you remember my job? You know, the one that  _ let you _ pursue your artwork at all when you were unemployed?”

“Wow, Ingrid, thanks so much for  _ letting me _ paint,” Sylvain says, his handsome face twisting into something that sends a shiver up Ingrid’s spine. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t even be asking anything from you, when I should be groveling at your feet for  _ letting me _ not work at a job like yours.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Ingrid demands. Something like guilt flashes across Sylvain’s expression, but it’s gone before she can be sure it was there at all. They’re both in too deep and too stubborn to back down.

“Your entire life is your job. I’m not even exaggerating. All you talk about is work, you go into work and you complain about work and you stay at work and—damn it, I’d say you’re nothing like the person I married, but you’re not even like a  _ person _ .” 

That hurts. That  _ hurts _ , and Ingrid feels tears coming on, but she rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand and hits back.

“Do you think I like feeling that way? We can’t all quit our jobs and go running off to whatever hobby we think is the most  _ charming _ . Who would support  _ me _ ? You can’t even remember the names of my coworkers that you’ve  _ met _ before. Your paintings might be selling now, but I’m the one who paid for that gallery space you peacock around in.”

Her words have struck the same, sore spot in his pride that his did in hers; Sylvain goes stark white and looks away. Ingrid is torn between self-satisfaction and guilt. 

“I see,” Sylvain says. “I  _ peacock _ . Great. I finally know how you feel about my work—although maybe I should have known earlier, considering how miserable you look every time there’s an event involving my work.

“If I look  _ miserable _ it’s because the only person I know at those stupid parties is too busy schmoozing collectors to actually talk to me! You never even introduce me anymore, so I just stand at your side like a goddamn lamppost while you kiss everyone’s asses,” Ingrid says. She lets out a bitter laugh. “How am I even surprised? I mean, look at what you missed our anniversary for.” 

Forcefully, Sylvain runs a hand through his hair. “I told you, that was an honest mistake. Not deliberately like,  _ may I remind you _ , the three thousand times you have stood me up for dinner. Do you think I like sucking up to them any more than you do? I’m out of my depths, Ingrid. What else am I supposed to do? I wasn't supposed to be  _ good _ or  _ popular _ or whatever—people who make more than our mortgage in one hour come up to me and ask me what this piece is supposed to mean. What am I supposed to tell them?”

“The truth?” Ingrid suggests sardonically.

“The  _ truth? _ ” Sylvain echoes, looking at her like she’s lost her mind.

“Your youth in Fhirdiad, or whatever,” Ingrid says. 

“Do you not—goddess, Ingrid, really?” Sylvain says. He turns around and starts walking, and Ingrid thinks he’s leaving the argument entirely, but he waves an arm. “Come on. My studio, if you want the  _ truth _ .”

He keeps walking without turning to see if she’s following, which she is. Ingrid has never been inside his studio before, and she doesn’t know why Sylvain’s letting her in  _ now _ of all times, but she’s too angry and confused to let him out of her sight. All these feelings are bubbling over in her, raw and unresolved.

Sylvain punches in his pin onto the door’s keypad with more force than necessary and throws the door open. The lights turn on automatically to reveal—

Yellow. 

Cadmium Yellow and Emerald Green. Everywhere.

From the still-wet paint on the easel’s canvas, to the already-dry paintings that hang on the wall, to the smudges on the concrete floor, to the picture of Ingrid pinned right above the easel.

She knows this picture. It was taken years ago, before they were even dating. It had been on the walk home back from school; Sylvain had borrowed the camera from his dad for a school project, and he had been messing around with it. Picture-Ingrid has a bandaid on her face and a front tooth missing in her smile as she beams at the digital camera, the sun caught in her hair and eyes, lighting up her face in a way Present-Ingrid hasn’t felt in a long time. 

Ingrid, overwhelmed, sinks to her knees. After a moment, Sylvain joins her on the floor. 

“Why?” she asks. It’s too sweet and too cruel and too terrible, because she doesn’t deserve to be painted and he doesn’t deserve to paint her. She wishes he hadn’t shown her.

Sylvain’s voice is thick with emotion when he responds, and Ingrid doesn’t look up, but she thinks he’s crying too. “I don’t know.” 

Ingrid has to gasp in her breaths. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How would I tell you?” Sylvain asks, his voice honest and helpless. “What do we even tell each other anymore? I mean, look at tonight.”

It’s his bad attempt at a joke, and it’s so poorly timed that Ingrid sobs out a laugh. “Goddess, we’re—”

“Pathetic?”

“I was going to say hopeless,” Ingrid says, leaning her head against the doorframe. Her work clothes are going to be filthy when she stands up, but she doesn’t care anymore. 

“That’s a pretty good one,” Sylvain says. He wipes his face on his pajama sleeve. “How about ‘terrible?’”

“Or ‘miserable’,” Ingrid suggests. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Yeah.” 

She offers out her hand without looking at him and he takes it, lacing their fingers together in a gesture that isn’t comforting, but isn’t not-comforting either. It reminds her of being eight and sitting on the curb outside of his classroom, waiting for the final bell to ring so they could walk home together. It reminds her of that time he had convinced her to skip Chemistry so they could catch the new spy movie while the theaters were empty. It reminds her of when he had led her into the tall grass, kissed her, and gotten down on one knee. 

It reminds her of her youth. 

Things between them aren’t okay. Ingrid isn’t sure they’ll ever be okay again. She doesn’t know what the next step is, and she doubts Sylvain does either, but—

Ingrid looks up to the ceiling of the studio, watching the fluorescent light blink.

She can breathe again. 

* * *

There’s a new painting for sale at the gallery downtown.

Ingrid tells her manager she’s taking the half day off again, and lets his grousing wash over her, his complaints dissolving in the air by the time they reach her. She takes her keys and her cards and her wallet and marches into the exhibit with her head held high.

If the young assistant who helps organize the sale notices that the name on her credit card matches the name on the painting’s placard, he doesn’t make anything of it.

He asks her (nervously, Ingrid thinks he’s new) if she has an address they can ship the painting to. Ingrid politely declines.

“Just wrap it in something. I’ll bring it out back to my car,” she says.

It fits surprisingly well, sitting in her backseat next to her yoga mat and an empty coffee cup. It looks like it belongs. Ingrid stops for a two-dozen box of donuts and eats four of them before she’s even made it to the highway, sugar sticking on the wheel and on the radio dial as she alternates wildly between bursting out into song and wanting to cry. 

She pulls into her parking spot with a practiced ease despite being one-handed. She’s simultaneously done this hundred of times and never before. She remembers to wipe her hand off on her work pants, at least, before hauling the painting out of her car.

Sylvain’s face when he opens the door to Ingrid (Ingrid! Home before 8 PM, can you imagine?) holding the painting he hadn’t wanted to sell is something she wishes she could photograph.

“Hi,” she says, and offers the canvas out to him. He takes it.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says. He sounds as lost as she feels, which is exhilarating. “What is this for?”

Ingrid steps inside, unbuttoning the collar of her shirt as she walks. “I thought it would be a shame if you didn’t get to keep at least  _ one _ of your paintings, right?”

_ In case I go. _

_ In case I stay. _

Sylvain tucks the painting under his arm, and brown eyes meet emerald green.

“Right.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [Rachelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyon_autumn/pseuds/halcyon_autumn) and [ Nicole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicole_writes/pseuds/nicole_writes) for betaing. You're the best! 
> 
> [Event Twitter link.](https://twitter.com/SylvgridTs)


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